


In Which Clint Barton has No Self-Preservation Instincts

by purrslink



Category: Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hawkeye being Hawkeye
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-01-25
Packaged: 2017-11-26 20:59:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/654362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purrslink/pseuds/purrslink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When it comes to the Hulk, Clint should probably have a bit more of a healthy fear. Maybe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Clint Barton has No Self-Preservation Instincts

Clint has accepted that he has the self-preservation instincts of a gnat.

It’s a comment Coulson has made to him more times than once, a sentiment scrawled in his psych evals and underlined three times (he was aiming for four next), and one that had been responsible for more trips to medical than on record so far in S.H.I.E.L.D. history. At least they had the nice memory foam toppers on the beds now as a result. The whole reckless abandon thing could be considered worth it just for that.

So really, he doesn’t understand why it surprises anyone when he steps through the ring of nervous agents and regards the target of a rather ill thought out ‘safety net’. Like those tranqs are going to do anything. Newbs. The Hulk can’t be taken down by anything less than elephant guns. Even then it’s questionable.

A nearby agent moves to speak to Clint, whites of his eyes clear as day, but the Hulk’s roar drowns out the words. Clint just gives the green-eyed man (boy, really) an eat-shit, watch-this grin and moves closer.

“Yo, big guy!” And Clint knows that every eye is on him now.

Including two green ones as the Hulk turns. The big guy’s all muscles and veins, worked up and smashing the last of the kill bots like candy’s going to come out instead of gears. It’s almost funny, except for the part where suddenly the ground is shaking and a big green fist is hovering over his face. At least S.H.I.E.L.D. has excellent dental.

Clint just regards it with tense shoulders (he’s reckless, not stupid) as he evaluates. He knows he should be afraid, he honestly does. And there is a small bit of something there that acknowledges the fact that his life could end right now without having tried that new place he so badly wanted to go to (Indian/Hawaiian, how could you say no to that?).

But Hulk is a fighter, an anger, a violence that Clint can kind of understand. Most of his young life Clint had spent angry, wanting to lash out at something, someone to get them to see what was wrong. People tend to listen to fists more than words, Clint had found, and while it wasn’t always quite the message Clint meant to give out there came a time when talking with your fists and being heard was better than not being heard at all. In some ways, he feels like that’s really what the Hulk is about in the end. Getting someone to listen.

The Hulk doesn’t move to smash though, so he doesn’t move to dance away. Instead, he goes for a grin. “Nice job, big guy.”

Hulk snorts, the air sending Clint’s hair back. “Kill bots no match for Hulk.”

He has to laugh at that and he takes a look around. Truer words haven’t been spoken yet today. Then again, there’s not much that is a match for the green guy. “You got that right, Jade Jaws.” Before he can stop himself his own hand is curling into a fist and reaching up. It’s a bro bump of epic proportions. “You did good, pal.”

There’s a quizzical look in those green eyes, but the Hulk seems pleased enough as the fist moves to the ground. Granted, concrete cracks, but it’s as gentle as it comes most days. “Cupid not bad either.”

At that Clint’s eyes crinkle as he grins. “I do my best.” Hulk huffs as if in agreement so he continues, “What do you say we blow this popsicle stand and get something to eat?” There’s a hint of uncertainty in the way the Hulk tilts his head and Clint realizes his mistake. “Ice cream. We’ve earned it. There’s a place not too far from here.”

He knows the agents are staring at him like he’s bat shit insane now but it’s been a tough day and who doesn’t like ice cream? Hulk considers this before letting out a low grumble and side eyeing him. “Hulk hate pistachio.”

Clint can’t help but laugh, putting his hands up in a surrender. “All right, all right, I won’t order it again. Promise.” Like Tony, who had had to foot that bill, would let him forget that pistachio, much less green things in general, weren’t on Hulk or Bruce’s favorite list. “Chocolate? Vanilla? You look like a cookie dough guy. We’ll treat ourselves, go double scoop.”

Hulk rumbles again, this time pleased, and it’s enough prompting for Clint to move forward. His foot finds Hulk’s knuckles and it’s thanks to hours of gym time and long since gone (but never forgotten) hours on vaults that has him able to make it onto a slumped forward shoulder, McKayla Maroney his ass. There’s a moment where he feels hundreds of pounds worth of muscle tense. Gun safeties click nervously and magazines clunk against standard issue armor.

“It’s just up here to the right, down 6th,” he explains, and he’ll try not to be too tense himself. He can already practically hear Coulson’s lecture waiting for him once the man hears about this. Whether it’ll be about this little stunt or the ice cream trip first, he’s not sure.

There’s another long moment before the world is moving, the ground rushing away as Hulk straightens. Clint lets himself relax at that, making himself comfortable and putting a hand on the big guy’s shoulder. He feels like he’s on top of the world as Hulk turns to start moving, but lack of common sense or not he’s not about to quote Titanic right now.

After all, he might have the self-preservation instinct of a gnat, but he’s not stupid.


End file.
